Chapter 33

An Epic Journey

A fter three days, we reached the outskirts of Saint Santin, a filthy, exhausted, rabble that we were. My feet ached and throbbed, my heels rubbed raw from the many kilometres we’d trekked. The small villages we’d passed along the way had welcomed us, with locals offering us shelter and food. The people were overjoyed, filled with hope, talking excitedly of the Allied landings, asking us all about our battles with the Germans. Their desperation was palpable, impatience burning in their eyes, especially now that they could taste victory. Den had been quiet, trudging along far behind the rest of us. He seemed troubled, and just as we walked into the town, he sidled up to me.

‘Nancy, there’s something I need to tell you.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry, Ducks, but when we were fleeing and the Germans were a bit too close for comfort, I destroyed the radio and burned my codebook. We can replace the set, but my codes—they’re gone. I can’t transmit.’ His face crumpled into a frown.

No codes meant no supplies. Shit. ‘Don’t worry, Den. I’ll think of something.’ We needed to contact an operator from another group. Perhaps Tardi or Fournier would know of someone.

We set up camp at a farm a short distance from the village centre. We were all bone-weary, and I sank heavily into an old brown leather armchair in the kitchen, my body burning, drenched in sweat, my mouth drier than any desert. Fournier, Tardi, Anselm, and Gaspard sat around the pine table. After a short rest and some refreshments, my mind went straight back to that radio. ‘Den, can’t you think of anyone? You’ve been here a while. There must be someone.’ We were back to square one. No radio, no contact. Useless.

He shook his head. ‘I can’t think, Ducks, I can’t. There are people, but I have no idea where the hell they are, especially right now.’ He took out a cigarette, lit up, and paced the floor. After a few minutes, he screeched, and my heart flipped in my chest. ‘I remember now. There’s a chap at Chateauroux. Why I didn’t think of him before, I don’t know—probably too damn tired.’

‘Jesus, Den. That’s bloody miles away!’ How the hell do we get there? It was roughly a four-hundred-kilometre round trip, and the area was crawling with Germans. The checkpoints would have to be dealt with, although it might be possible to bypass some by sticking to minor routes. One of us had to do something. A car was out of the question. ‘I’ll need a bicycle.’

‘Sorry, love, what?’ Den looked confused.

‘Keep up. A cycle—where can I get one?’

‘Bloody hell, Nancy. You can’t cycle to Chateauroux. The roads are swarming with patrols. You’ll be caught before you’re halfway there.’

Fournier raised his head. ‘What’s this?’

‘Madame here thinks she can cycle to Chateauroux to reach a radio op I know.’

‘Impossible. The checkpoints are tighter than a drum these days. You will be stopped and questioned in no time.’ Fournier glanced at Gaspard, who sat in silence, puffing a cigarette.

‘Well, what do you suggest? I can’t travel by car. The Germans have tightened security at checkpoints and set up dozens of roadblocks on the main roads.’ They were going to be bloody furious after failing to exterminate us all on the plateau.

‘It will take you days to get there and back,’ Fournier snapped.

‘I can do it.’ They all looked at me as if I had two heads! ‘For Christ’s sake, one of us has to do something. There’s no other option and a woman is less conspicuous than a man.’ At least we still had the operator, despite losing London—our lifeline. ‘I didn’t sign up to fail, and I’m not going down without a fight.’

Den and Fournier exchanged worried looks, a mix of doubt and concern. I could do this, and I knew I must. Memories of past trips resurfaced—delivering messages, parcels, people. I gritted my teeth. Failure was not an option.

‘Fournier, please find me a decent bicycle, and I’ll do the rest. I’ll head to Aurillac tomorrow morning and see if I can find something suitable to wear.’ I needed to blend in, to look like a clean, well-dressed Frenchwoman—someone the Germans wouldn’t stop and search.

Fournier shook his head, glancing nervously at Den. ‘I do not like it, but you are probably right. I will find you a bicycle.’

‘And the tailors? Are they onside?’

‘Do not worry about Monsieur Dupont. We can trust him.’ Fournier nodded, fixing me with a troubled stare.

I sighed, trying to shrug off their doubts. Henri never doubted me, although he always worried. An unsettled feeling struck, sharp as a sword. Had Henri truly believed in me? I’d always thought so, but now, with the passage of time and separation, I wasn’t so sure. I remembered all those times the Allies used our flat for meetings, plotting escapes. His face flashed in my mind—those furtive glances, the concern in his eyes, the rare moments he voiced it. But I’d always insisted, headstrong as ever.

I exhaled. Henri was reliable, strong, and I believed in him. He should have made it to London. I stared out of the window at the blue sky, watching swifts soar and dive, my thoughts scrambling. My escape had been treacherous. Maybe Henri was hiding somewhere. Maybe he was at our chalet in Névache. Of course. He would have gone somewhere quiet. Friends would surely have helped him.

But I knew better than to brood. I had a journey to plan, and that had to be my focus. As hard as it was, I had to push thoughts of Henri away—for now.

***

The next day, I found a sturdy, decent-looking bicycle leaning up against the stone wall of the house. ‘My carriage awaits,’ I mused, running my hand over the black seat.

Later that afternoon, I cycled into Aurillac, taking a minor route to avoid German patrols. The tailor’s shop was easy to find, and as I stepped through the door, a man in his fifties looked up from behind the counter, a tape measure draped around his neck.

‘Bonjour, Madame. Can I help you?’ He adjusted his black-rimmed spectacles.

‘Oui, Monsieur. I wish to buy something new—a navy skirt, a blouse, and a jacket? And I need it urgently, Monsieur. Tomorrow.’

A flicker of surprise crossed his face like a shadow. ‘Oh, Madame, that is impossible. It will take time to—’

‘Please, it’s most urgent,’ I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice. ‘You would be doing France a great service.’ I held his gaze, watching the realisation dawn in his eyes.

‘Oui, Madame. I will see to it. I need to take some measurements first, if I may.’

‘Of course.’ The tailor worked quietly, occasionally meeting my eyes, his murmured measurements filling the silence. He jotted down numbers in pencil on a small notepad, his focus intense.

‘Your outfit will be ready tomorrow, Madame, and I will have it brought out to you,’ he said hurriedly, his voice low, strained. He rested his hand on my arm. ‘Do not return. The Milice are next door.’ He cast me a concerned look, his brow furrowed, his brown eyes wide.

‘Merci, Monsieur.’ I was almost out the door before I realised I hadn’t given him my address. ‘Monsieur, you don’t know where to find me.’

‘I think I do, Madame. Saint Santin.’ He nodded.

I sensed the tailor was genuine, although doubts always niggled at the back of my mind. When I returned to the farm, the leaders were waiting, along with Hubert. ‘It’s done. The tailor promised to deliver my clothes, so I’m all set.’

‘I will send word ahead. There will be places you can stop along the way for rest and food. And I will arrange for lookouts, so you do not run into trouble,’ Fournier said, his voice steady, though the worry in his eyes betrayed him.

Everyone looked tense, except Gaspard. I wasn’t exactly sure what he thought, but the lack of doubt in his gaze was oddly reassuring. I decided to take that as a good sign.

Determined to make the most of my last night before the journey, I resolved to eat as much as I could and have a bloody good drink. Whatever lay ahead, I needed to be ready.

***

The following day, I woke to birdsong in a bed that felt almost too comfortable—real sheets, real blankets. A rare luxury. For a moment, I let myself indulge, rolling over and hugging the pillow, but my thoughts were far from peaceful. They churned like storm clouds, dark and insistent. Hens clucked outside; a sound so ordinary it almost felt unreal amid all this chaos. This was someone’s home—a family home—and the ache for my own home, for Henri, struck me hard.

It was impossible to put into words how much I missed him. Can you imagine what it’s like to have no communication at all? No letters, no telephone calls, no telegrams. Only distance, time, memories, and wishes that never seemed to reach him. I wondered if he was out there, somewhere, thinking of me—or worse, if he wasn’t.

But there was no time to dwell. The flurry of thoughts about the road ahead came crashing in. The danger, the uncertainty. One wrong move, one misstep, and it could all be over. I could feel the weight of it pressing down on me, but I forced myself to focus on the mission. The Allies were making headway, and we had to do our part. Keep the Germans occupied here, give the Allies a fighting chance. It wouldn’t be long now—I had to believe that.

I took a deep breath, pushing away the fear that clawed at the edges of my resolve. I could do this. I had to do this. Henri was out there, somewhere, and I wasn’t going to let the Germans take everything from me. Not now. Not ever.

‘Gertie!’

Den’s voice echoed up the stairs. I hurriedly dragged a brush through my hair and slipped downstairs. There he was, waiting in the hall with a large brown paper package in his arms.

‘Parcel from the tailors,’ he said, holding it out.

I took it from him, carefully unwrapping the brown paper. The jacket came out first, sleek and elegant. Then the thin ivory blouse and matching blue skirt. Perfect. It was such a blessing to have new clothes, a rare moment of normalcy, and I couldn’t help but smile.

‘Lovely, Ducks,’ Den said with a wink. ‘A rather handsome young man delivered those. Quite the talker, too.’

‘Oh, I bet he was, Den,’ I replied with a chuckle, imagining the exchange.

‘Well, you know me, Ducks. Sink or swim, my love, sink or swim.’ Den chuckled as he walked away, leaving me alone in the hall. I stood there for a moment, wrapped in the unexpected happiness of my new outfit.

With a smile tugging at my lips, I slipped into the kitchen and grabbed a hunk of bread, spreading on a thin layer of strawberry jam. The sweetness felt like a small indulgence, a reminder of simpler times. I dashed upstairs, finishing my hair with quick, practiced strokes.

Sliding into my new clothes, I checked my reflection in the mirror on the dressing table. The jacket and skirt fitted perfectly, a rare luxury in these uncertain days. One last touch—I dabbed on a little ruby lipstick, the colour adding a bold splash of confidence. It wasn’t just an outfit; it was armour for the road ahead.

Outside, the sun hung in a flawless milky-blue sky, deceptively calm. It was almost time to leave, and just for a moment, a flicker of uneasiness surfaced in the pit of my stomach. I wasn’t frightened, I told myself, but the feeling lingered, stubborn and unshakable.

I turned to the chest of drawers in my room, my eyes settling on the bottle of brandy. One drink for Dutch courage. I poured a measure, the amber liquid catching the light, and returned to the window, glass in hand. Below, I spotted Den checking my bicycle over, his careful movements bringing a warm glow to my chest.

I raised the glass to my lips, downing the brandy in one smooth motion. The fiery heat bloomed in my mouth, then radiated down into my stomach, snuffing out the unease—or at least pushing it aside for now. I had a job to do, and there was no room for fear.

I set the empty glass down on the windowsill, the lingering warmth of the brandy still steadying my nerves. Time to go. I took one last glance around the room, then grabbed my coat from the back of the chair. As I made my way downstairs, the weight of what lay ahead settled on my shoulders, but I pushed it aside. Focus.

Outside, the sun was still shining in that flawless milky-blue sky, and Den was waiting. I stuffed two carrots, a leek, and a handful of green beans into a string bag and dropped it into the basket on the front of the bicycle. The aim was to appear as nothing more than a French woman out shopping—simple, inconspicuous. The less attention I drew, the better.

I’d decided against carrying a weapon. It was far safer to talk my way past any Germans, using my feminine charms if necessary.

‘Be careful, Ducks,’ Den said, smiling, though fear clouded his eyes. He kissed me on each cheek and handed me a bottle of water for the journey.

‘It’ll be fine, Denden. Don’t worry.’ I tried to reassure him, but I could see the lingering guilt in his eyes. What had happened was in the past, and I had no choice but to accept it. The journey ahead loomed large, stirring a whirlwind of emotions inside me. Was I afraid? My stomach murmured with unease, but my mind was a hurricane of thoughts, while a fire burned steadily in my heart.

People often said fear was natural, but I wasn’t sure I’d ever truly been afraid. Concerned for others, yes. Worried about the outcome, certainly. But fear? No, there wasn’t room for it—not with so much at stake. I had to keep moving forward, doubts be damned. Life didn’t stop for fear, and neither would I.

Pierre, a young maquisard, sat astride his bicycle, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He had a reason to accompany me for the first part of the journey—his heavily pregnant wife awaited him in Montlucon. I welcomed the escort, knowing the road ahead was anything but certain.

Climbing onto my bicycle, I winced at the feel of the thinly padded seat beneath me. Thank goodness I was fairly fit. For a brief moment, my thoughts drifted to my mother, her Bible in hand. What would she think of me now? A different time, a different world, all so far away. I heaved out a breath, pushing the thought aside.

‘This is for you, Henri,’ I muttered under my breath, ‘and for France.’

Fournier waved us off, his voice tight with concern as he muttered, ‘Merde.’ His eyes burned with worry, but there was no turning back now.

As we set off, Den’s final goodbyes faded into the breeze. I waved without looking back, my focus sharpening on the road ahead.

‘We will take the minor roads,’ Pierre said, his voice steady. ‘If luck is on our side, we will avoid the Germans.’

The Germans rarely strayed from the main routes, too afraid of ambushes that had claimed many of their own. I raised my chin, feeling the sun warm my face. On such a beautiful day, it was almost impossible to believe we were in the midst of a bloody war. For just a few delicious seconds, I allowed myself to imagine a world at peace—then snapped back to the reality of the journey.

***

A little later, when we reached the crossroads, Pierre slowed his pace and said, ‘We walk from here. This is one of the main roads to Montlucon. If we’re on foot, we’ll have a better chance of spotting German patrols. We can take cover in the ditch if need be.’

‘Great,’ I muttered, glancing at the ditch as I dismounted. The thought of diving into that muddy trench wasn’t exactly appealing, but safety came first. I began pushing my bicycle alongside Pierre, the rhythm of our steps steady, almost calming despite the tension that hung in the air.

We hadn’t spoken much before, but as we strolled, Pierre began to talk. The Germans were ruthless, he said. Reprisals were escalating. His own brother had been arrested and shot. It seemed everyone in France had lost someone or suffered in some way.

His words weighed heavily, the reality of the war pressing down on us both. All too soon, the ache in my feet became impossible to ignore. The new shoes, so perfect for the disguise, now pinched and rubbed with every step. But there was no turning back. No matter the pain, no matter the cost, I had to reach my destination and get that damn message sent.

Were London and Buckmaster even concerned about our silence? After all the fighting and the loss, did they fear the worst? The thought gnawed at me, but I pushed it aside. There was no room for doubt now. Only the road ahead.

The mid-afternoon sun beat down relentlessly, sweat trickling down my neck and sliding down my back. Just when I thought the heat would become unbearable, a fresh mountain breeze swept over us—invigorating, a brief respite from the exhaustion. My stomach grumbled in protest; it had been hours since I last ate.

Fortunately, we encountered no German patrols. When we reached another crossroads, Pierre turned to me. ‘This is where we part ways.’ We mounted our bicycles, exchanging nods of farewell. He headed toward Montlucon, and I took the road to Saint-Amand.

Fournier had warned me about several checkpoints, and the information proved invaluable. As I pressed on, my thighs chafed and ached, and my backside throbbed from the unforgiving saddle. I longed to stop, but I had to carry on. The sun dipped low, casting the sky in hues of pink and amber. I promised myself that once I reached the small town, I could eat. The mere thought of food made my stomach grumble again. By then, I was out of water, my throat dry and parched. The long, snake-like road gradually unfurled before me, and in the distance, I saw lights twinkling like beacons of hope. As I passed through a small village, the welcoming scents of basil and garlic filled the air, guiding me to a small bistro.

I stopped for food, savouring a simple meal washed down with a glass of red wine. A few people dined around me, their voices low and cautious. Overhearing snippets of conversation, I was relieved to learn there was little German activity in the area. ‘All quiet on the Western Front,’ they said.

Feeling refreshed, I set off again, the faint silhouette of the moon rising to the east, a silent companion on the road ahead.

It wasn’t long before my legs began to ache and chafe. The trees cackled as I passed beneath them, their leaves rustling and shaking, showering me with a cool breeze snatched from the nearby river, Le Cher. The hilly terrain was unforgiving, and I was flagging—sore, desperate for rest.

As I approached an old stone barn, I hesitated. It looked deserted, no sign of life around, and night was closing in. It was as good a place as any for a brief rest. Inside, a generous scattering of straw lay across the floor. I undressed, carefully folding my clothes. They had to stay crease-free and clean. The last thing I needed was to look like someone on a long journey—too suspicious.

I lay down on the straw and pulled my jacket over myself, shivering as goosebumps prickled my arms. Outside, an owl hooted, its haunting cry echoing through the night.

There wasn’t really time to sleep, but my entire body ached for it. The barn was so peaceful, so inviting, and my eyes hovered and flickered, heavy with exhaustion. Every limb, every muscle, seemed to sink into the straw, and before I knew it, I slipped willingly into darkness.

Suddenly, the wail of an air raid siren pierced my subconscious, jolting me awake. In the distance, the rumble of aircraft grew louder, followed by the crump of an explosion. I jumped up, heart racing, quickly dusting myself off and pulling on my clothes. Another crump echoed through the early morning stillness.

I glanced at my watch. Four o’clock in the morning. Twilight. The air was cool, refreshing as I pushed off on my bicycle and headed towards Saint-Amand, the remnants of sleep clinging to me like cobwebs.

I had memorised the route Fournier had advised, and I carried a mental list of safe houses scattered along the way. Yet, for some annoying reason, the distance kept flitting through my mind like a red flag, taunting me, tempting me to give in. There were so many more miles to cover. Reaching Chateauroux was one thing but making the return trip with minimal stops—that was another challenge altogether.

I forced myself to focus on the task at hand. Little steps, I reminded myself. Henri’s voice whispered in my ear. I have never known a woman like you, Nannie. You are incredible, mon amour. My chest tightened, and I sucked in a deep breath. How many times had I made similar journeys through France, slipping past Germans on trains and roads? Too many to count. This was just another trip, I told myself, trying to push down the rising anxiety.

The memory of the bounty on my head resurfaced, a grim reminder of the danger. The Germans had their ways of finding people. My feet pressed down on the pedals, and I gritted my teeth, determined to keep going.

At a small village on the way to Bourges, I was fortunate to find sanctuary at the home of one of my contacts, a young Frenchman who welcomed me with food and coffee. It was a relief to wash my face and brush my hair, small comforts that felt like luxuries.

‘Be careful when you reach Bourges,’ he said, his voice low. ‘The Germans raided the town yesterday and took many hostages. They shot them this morning.’

‘Christ.’ The news sent a shudder through me, a grim reminder of the brutality we were up against.

‘There’s a German checkpoint on the road into town. I’ll show you a safer way, Madame Andrée.’

I didn’t stay long—just enough time to finish my meal of bread, ham, and cheese. As I bid him farewell, he handed me a fresh bottle of water, a small gesture of kindness in a world turned cruel.

Bourges. I slowed as I passed through, the streets desolate, stores shuttered. The air felt eerie, oppressive, heavy with mourning for all those lost. It clung to me like a disease as I rode on, a sorrow that seeped into my bones. Up ahead, a column of German soldiers appeared, their jackboots stomping in unison, the sound growing into a menacing crescendo. I held my breath as they marched by, not even sparing me a glance. Only when they were gone did I dare exhale.

My feet pinched and throbbed with every pedal stroke, the skin rubbed raw on my toes and heels. Every muscle ached, and my thighs burned with a persistent inner soreness. The terrain of the Puy-de-Dome was unforgiving, the mountainous region challenging every ounce of strength I had left. My chest pounded as I sucked in humid air, my legs juddering, each turn of the pedals slower than the last until, finally, I came to a halt.

There was nothing for it but to walk. Staggering on jelly-like legs, I pushed my bicycle uphill, taking frequent stops, resting for just a minute at a time. Each step felt like a battle, my resolve weakening with every painful movement.

Issoudun lay half a mile away, the road in a moderate incline that felt like a mountain. My legs threatened to cramp with every step. I paused, taking deep breaths to steady myself. ‘One foot in front of the other. One more step,’ I muttered, forcing myself onward.

Once I reached the village, I found a small bistro and ventured inside. The cool air hit me like a balm, but the relief was short-lived as I noticed several couples dining at small tables, their conversations cutting off as they watched me head to the counter. I put a hand to my hair, smoothing it down, only to feel the gritty dust coating my palm. My blouse clung to my back like a wet cloth, and I could sense every eye on me.

The patron nodded in acknowledgement, picking up a pen and paper, ready to take my order. I just hoped I could muster the strength to make it through this brief respite before the journey resumed.

‘Bonjour, Madame. What can I get for you?’ the patron asked, his voice warm but curious.

I glanced at the specials board behind him, noting the limited options. ‘Bonjour. I’ll have whatever’s going.’ His curious glance didn’t escape me. ‘And throw in a bottle of brandy.’

After placing my order, I stepped into the ladies’ room and looked at myself in the small mirror hanging on the cream-painted wall. My hair was more than a little windswept, and my face was flushed, shimmering with perspiration. I removed my jacket, took out a small face cloth from my inside pocket, and began to freshen up. First, I washed my face, then brushed my hair, pinning it neatly back into place. A little ruby lipstick and a spritz of perfume restored a bit of normalcy.

Returning to the dining area, I found a table by the window and sat down, my stomach grumbling with hunger, nausea swirling from exhaustion, and my legs still shaking from the strain of the journey.

As I waited, I kept a watchful eye on the people in the bistro and the street outside, though I doubted the Germans would pass through this remote village. Still, it was best to stay on guard. The conversations around me were frustratingly mundane, mostly small talk about daily life. Not one person spoke of the war, and it gnawed at me. I needed to stay informed, especially about local news and German movements. Information could mean the difference between life and death on the road.

A young waitress approached with a plate of steaming rabbit stew and a carafe of water. ‘Merci,’ I said, offering her a small smile. She returned it before walking away.

I poked at the food with my fork, trying to muster an appetite despite the swirling nausea. After an hour, the bistro had mostly emptied, and the patron came over, carrying the bottle of brandy.

‘Your brandy, Madame.’

‘Ah, merci, Monsieur. Why don’t you join me?’ I offered, pouring a generous measure into his glass.

His eyes lit up, and his craggy face broke into a wide grin. ‘Why not? Merci, Madame. You are most generous.’

He downed his glass in one gulp, and I poured him another as we talked, passing the time like old acquaintances.

‘The Germans are scum,’ he muttered, his face darkening with bitterness. ‘They come in here, demanding the best food and drink for next to nothing. Some don’t pay at all. And what can I do?’ He held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

‘It’s the same all over,’ I said. ‘They demand free food from local farms, leaving families to go hungry.’ Within half an hour, we were laughing and joking, and I had gathered the local news, the quickest routes to the markets, and the location of all checkpoints. As I left, I longed for rest, but there wasn’t time. I had to reach Chateauroux before curfew. The final leg was still an hour and a half away.

A raw soreness radiated from my backside, and my thighs trembled with every painful pedal stroke. As I neared Chateauroux, the roads became busier, trucks hurtling past, crammed with German soldiers. Some waved and called out. Thank God they didn’t stop.

Then my heart sank—a checkpoint ahead. I took a deep breath, opened another button on my blouse, hitched up my skirt, and continued pedalling, wincing through the pain while flashing a smile at the young German soldier. His colleague was busy scrutinising the papers of an old man, and after a brief glance at me, he waved me through. I could hardly believe my luck.

The town was surprisingly peaceful, with small groups of German soldiers lounging in cafés, laughing and drinking. I wondered how many French lives they had taken or ruined. After circling the town twice, I finally found the bistro Den had mentioned. I ventured inside and ordered a Pernod. After a few drinks, the patron loosened up, and I mustered the courage to ask if the man with the scar on his left cheek was still around. He nodded and gave me directions.

As I got up to leave, a familiar face caught my eye. ‘Achilles,’ I said, and we embraced. It turned out he was also searching for a Free French radio operator—their own had been killed in action.

‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.

Armed with the address, we set off, following the patron’s directions. The address led us to an apartment block, and the flat was on the first floor. I knocked, but there was no answer. I tried again and waited. Within a minute, footsteps approached, and a man cautiously opened the door. A long scar ran from the side of his nose to his earlobe.

‘I am Madame Andrée, with the Maquis of the Auvergne.’ He moved to close the door, but I quickly placed my foot in the way. ‘Please, Monsieur. It’s urgent. We need to send a message to London.’

‘What is the password?’

Damn. We didn’t have it. I blew out a breath. ‘I don’t have it. Please, if you could just…’

‘I cannot help. You could be a German spy.’ He slammed the door shut, and I staggered back.

‘If I were a spy, I would have arrested you by now,’ I muttered, exasperated. It was ridiculous. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to think.

‘Come with me,’ Achilles said, jogging back downstairs and out into the street. ‘My contact is not far from here.’

Every part of me ached, but I forced myself onto my bicycle and followed him. We rode to another bistro where Achilles found his contact. We learned that the radio operator had fled the Germans and was hiding in the woods not far from town, in the department of the Creuse. ‘Just as well you didn’t have the address,’ I said, relieved.

The town was thick with the enemy, their presence palpable as they marched and rumbled past in military trucks. We rode separately to the woods, meeting up at a small clearing where the Maquis were camped. Achilles spoke first, making his request, and then I asked if the radio operator could send my message to Colonel Buckmaster in London.

‘Tell him my group has no radio or codes and urgently needs replacements,’ I said.

‘I will ask my radio operator, Madame,’ the maquisard replied. ‘If he agrees, the message will be sent.’

I bid farewell to Achilles and began the long journey back. Day turned to night, and stars peppered the sky. Exhaustion was an understatement, and I started to doubt I’d make it back in one piece. The Germans and their checkpoints seemed insignificant compared to my growing physical distress. The need to relieve myself became unbearable, and though I feared stopping, I dreaded even more that I wouldn’t be able to get back on my bicycle.

With no other choice, I relieved myself as I rode, sucking in a breath and exhaling slowly as I concentrated on the strange, unnatural act. The relief was immense, but the warm urine stung as it trickled between my thighs, inflaming raw skin. I poured water over my legs, the coolness soothing the burn, and wobbled slightly as I continued pedalling, determined to reach safety.

Before the night was over, I came upon another empty barn and decided to stop for a brief rest. Sitting on the straw-strewn ground, I took a few sips of water and leaned back against the cold stone wall, telling myself I’d rest for just half an hour. I had to fight sleep—my eyes were lead-heavy, and I knew I’d be out in seconds if I let them close. Slapping my cheeks to stay awake, I forced myself to sit up. I was too weak to stand, so I clambered onto my knees and dragged myself up, each movement a struggle. With a heavy heart, I climbed back onto the bicycle and pushed off once more.

Everything ached, burned, and trembled as the cycle rolled along the road. My calves were tight and aching, while my bottom throbbed with pain, making it unbearable to sit on the seat. Desperate for relief, I tried standing up to pedal, but I didn’t have the strength to keep it up for long. I must have looked a sight, wobbling all over the road as I fought to keep going.

At the first German checkpoint in Issoudun, I took deep breaths and unbuttoned the top button of my blouse again, having already removed my jacket earlier. I hitched my skirt just a little higher, revealing more flesh, and forced a smile as I approached. The German soldier was only slightly taller than me, his hair white beneath his cap. I met his pale blue eyes with a steady gaze. ‘Bonjour.’

‘Bonjour, Madame.’ He paused, a slight smile forming at the corners of his lips as his gaze quickly scanned my body. ‘Papers, please.’

A familiar knot twisted in my gut, but not out of fear—more out of the thrill of the moment. This was no game, though. I was an agent, an enemy of Germany, and I’d go down fighting if it came to that. I returned his smile, leaning forward over my handlebars as I reached into my bag for my papers. My breath hitched, but he barely glanced at them, his attention more focused on admiring me than scrutinising my documents. I fluttered my eyelashes and exchanged pleasantries, playing my part as best I could.

‘Have a pleasant day, Madame,’ he said, waving me through.

I mounted my bicycle, momentarily forgetting the soreness in my behind as I settled back onto the hard seat. Stifling a groan to avoid drawing attention, I bit my lip and pedalled away, glancing up briefly at the sky. ‘Thank you,’ I muttered under my breath.

There was no time to waste. I had to keep going—if I got off this bicycle one more time, I doubted I’d ever find the strength to get back on. The hours slipped by, the sun beating down on me, smothering me in its fierce heat. My mouth was bone dry, and I sipped water as I rode, dreading the inevitable pain when I needed to relieve myself again. Each turn of the pedals chafed my raw skin more, and as evening drew closer and the sun dipped lower, I drank the last of my water.

***

After hours of agony, my backside felt as though it had been kicked black and blue, and my inner thighs burned like fire. ‘Just keep going, Nance,’ I muttered through gritted teeth. ‘For you, Henri.’ I pictured his face, willing myself to push on, knowing we’d soon be reunited.

Up ahead, a figure appeared in the road. My heart sank—was it a German? As I drew nearer, relief washed over me as I realised it was Pierre, my escort. My spirits soared like the swallows overhead, and for the first time in hours, I smiled.

‘C’est un garcon!’ he called out.

‘A boy? Oh, congratulations!’ I tried to sound pleased, but the pain dulled my enthusiasm.

‘Madame Andrée, you look rough.’

‘Don’t I know it.’

‘You must rest.’

I shook my head. ‘No. If I stop now, I’ll never get back on this damn thing. Must. Keep. Going.’ I winced with each pedal stroke. ‘Just one more turn,’ I told myself—’just one more turn.’

A blinding headache pounded in my skull, but I welcomed the sunset. The dimming light, the cooler air, and a slight breeze provided some relief as we rode back to Saint Santin.

When we finally arrived, friendly faces gathered around in the yard. Pierre sailed ahead while I cycled up the winding driveway, slower than a snail. ‘I’ve only bloody made it,’ I whispered.

Den was in the front yard and looked up. ‘Gertie’s back!’

Fournier and Tardi emerged, wide-eyed and grinning. A huge weight lifted off me, replaced by a mix of sadness, joy, and extreme pain. Reaching the lawn, I stopped pedalling, letting my legs dangle as the cycle rolled to a halt. My feet touched the ground, but as I tried to stand, my legs buckled, and I toppled onto the grass, crying out.

I lay on my back, staring up at the twilight sky. The moon was almost full, and hundreds of stars blinked back. I wondered if Henri was looking at the same sky, thinking of me. A sob broke free, and then the floodgates opened as I cried, gut-wrenching sobs that left me gasping for air as men rushed to my side.

‘Gently,’ Den said to Fournier as they each took an arm and hoisted me to my feet.

‘I can’t stand,’ I said, between sobs and cries of pain.

They held me up, half-carrying me into the house and setting me down on the sofa.

‘Bring water,’ Fournier yelled at a young Frenchman. ‘And brandy, fetch the brandy.’

Den held my hand while Fournier stared at me, shaking his head, his brown eyes soft with concern. ‘You did it, Gertie. You’re a marvel. Thank God you’re back safe.’

Den arranged cushions behind me, lifting my legs up. The relief of lying down was immense, but I still couldn’t speak. All I could do was cry, huge sobs that wracked my body. Perhaps it was the stress of the past few years, of leaving Henri behind, of having my life ripped apart by this damn war. We had all lost so much, but it didn’t make me feel any better.

Den returned with Collette, a young woman from Fournier’s group. She carried towels and clean clothes. Den placed a bowl of warm water and a pitcher on the table beside me. ‘I’ll leave you to it, Collette. See you shortly, luvvie,’ he said, closing the door behind him.

Collette was kind and gentle. She helped me out of my filthy clothes and covered me with a towel as she washed me. One glance at my thighs, and she winced. ‘Mon Dieu.’ She marched to the door and called out, ‘Can you bring clean dressings, please? She has terrible sores. And iodine.’

My legs were a mess—blistered, raw, and bloody, with skin hanging in strips. No wonder that last day on the cycle had been hell. I spotted the brandy on the table, grabbed it, and took a swig, savouring the warmth that spread through my body. I decided to keep hold of the bottle.

‘Do not worry, Nancy,’ Collette said gently. ‘I have seen worse.’ She nodded, tucking a stray curl behind her ear as she picked up the iodine.

I closed my eyes, thankful to have made it back in one piece. Five hundred kilometres in seventy-two hours. A momentous journey. Nausea swirled in my gut, my head pounded, and every inch of me ached. But at least now, I could sleep.

***

Two days later, as I lay in bed trying to rest, a faint droning sound reached my ears from the west. I turned to the window. The moon was full and bright, and the droning grew louder. My heart raced, and despite the pain, I couldn’t help but grin. ‘They sent the message. You beauties! Woohoo!’ Our men were waiting at the drop zone. With a radio and codes on the way, we were back in business.